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2013.09.06 - A Pinch
It was... interesting, restraining Monet. With her abilities, she'd be close to impossible to keep under control while allowing her to be awake. Shutting off those abilities was the obvious answer, but the cleanest way to do that would be to psionically 'flip the switch' as it were, but Sinister would have to concentrate on her constantly and that was far from practical. He could surgically remove the part of the brain that controlled them, of course, but that was a far too permanent solution for his liking. He would be forced to use the neural inhibitor, it seemed, a device usually used to dampen the powers of telepaths so they couldn't call for help on the astral plane. With a few modifications, he rigged it to fire a constant stream of telepathic 'white noise' into the area of the mind that controlled Monet's mutant abilities. She would be unable to utilize her power while wearing the device, but unfortunately it would also provide her with migraine-like headaches. An acceptable side-effect. Once everything was in place, and Sinister had Monet secured to the bio-organic operating table through the very same tendrils that captured her in the first place, he allowed the cloud of toxic gas to dissipate back into the bowels of his base. And then he waited... Waited for her to awake so he could begin his tests. Monet wakes up to pain. She is familiar with this feeling. Her limbs are thick and uncoordinated. Some of her muscles are not responding while others are. Even when she tries to thrash her arms and legs, something is holding her. Her mouth is dry. She gags, choking on her own tongue. She thinks about a glass of water. No, wait it's-- "Mmmmrrrr--sssss," the young woman slurs. She rocks to the side, or at least tries to, throwing her weight uselessly against the tendrils. "Finally, she awakes..." comes Sinister's smooth voice from a darkened corner, still choosing to stay in the shadows. "You put up more of a fight than I was expecting, Monet." Slowly he crosses from one shadow to the next, a brief glimpse of pale white skin, dark grinning lips, and bright red eyes, before once again he's out of sight. "I can't say I'm disappointed, however. It means you're of even more use to me than I originally thought. Which reminds me... Can you tell what I'm thinking?" He lifts a completely pale hand to tap what must be his temple, "I'll even lower my defenses. Take control, have me free you if you think you're able." The severity of her headache begins to sink in. It is not stopping. There's no lull or ebb to it; the headache is constant and sharp in a way that is not organic. Monet thinks: at least it's not in my bones. She laughs out loud, a choked and pitiful sound that is soon overcome by coughing. The young mutant looks up through her tousled hair. Her eyes are watery and already reddened. She has to see him. She has to see what this person looks like and then she will never, ever forget. Even with this spike being driven into her skull, piercing any thought she dares to have, she will never forget. Monet smiles. "Fous le camps et morte." Sinister laughs and ticks his index finger at Monet, "Tsk, tsk, Monet. That's not very nice, is it?" Shadows play across his face as he approaches the table, giving her brief glimpses of bits and pieces until he stops, directly next to her, his lips twisted in a smile the only thing still visible except for those glowing red eyes of his. His hand stretches out to grip either side of her face and gently twist it back and forth so he can get a better glimpse at... Whatever it is he's looking for. "Are you experiencing any notable discomfort? Besides, what I imagine is a splitting headache." That is not Marius' voice. Small favors. She can just--it hurts. If only she could--oh god, it hurts. Monet keeps her eyes open. They are too wide and the muscles around them twitch often. She is forcing herself to see. Every other second, she fights a convulsion. The neural inhibitor is working. The dark figure is not thrown across the room, nor is he suddenly compelled to free her and then kill himself. Not that the convulsions stop. As her tormentor makes his circuitous way to her bedside, Monet continues to exhibit symptoms of retaliation from the inhibitor. She is testing the limits of her cage. Her wide, bloody eyes do not stop tracking him. There is a certain trick to shutting out pain. Monet breathes in regular intervals. When the convulsions threaten this, she tenses and masters it. A tear rolls down her cheek. It must be from keeping her eyes open for so long. Sinister seems completely devoid of emotion when it comes to the obvious pain Monet is in. When she fails to respond to his question, he simply moves on, tilting her head up so he can inspect the skin just behind and below her ears. "No bruising, no obvious signs of a head injury... Everything else will heal naturally when your abilities return, so I think we can begin testing." As he moves his hand, he dries the single tear from her cheek and examines his finger with disdain, "You'll have to do better to contain your emotions... That can be taught, of course, though I had hoped you had learned that lesson before I found you. What with your brother abducting you... I can only imagine the things he did..." He smiles down to her again, the disdain fading, "I do remember what he was like when I first met him. Not quite as voracious an appetite, but that changed with a few gentle nudges from me. Now I'd imagine you'd much rather be my guest than his. My tests will at least be harmless, and, hopefully, shall empower you to reach new heights." As he talks, an organic tendril extends from the ceiling and offers Sinister a syringe, which he promptly plucks from it's grasp. "You may feel a pinch..." Monet knows another trick. She does not say anything. Not even when this shadow man touches her face. Not even when he talks about her brother. Not even when he mentions the hunger. If she is nothing, if she is a doll, it will pass more quickly. Talking can sometimes make things easier. Sometimes it will make it more painful. The bad times are always more bad than the good times are good. Of course they are. Someone who does something like this is not a good person. Bad times come more easily to them. She can't retreat into herself. It's not because of the inhibitor stabbing away with dull, automated cruelty. Monet wants to be here. She wants to see every inch of this, even in the muted, sluggish world she is now in. She remembers this, vaguely. It's how humans senses feel. "We certainly /are/ stubborn, aren't we?" Sinister drolls out as he casually plunges the needle into Monet's arm, drawing blood slowly from her veins. "And silent, too. I suppose I can hardly begrudge you that. I may not be your favorite person right now, Monet, but trust me, I'm only looking out for what's best for you and mutantkind. I could grant you anything you could wish for -- your powers are a manifestation of evolution at its greatest, a force I have learned to control." As the syringe becomes full of the extracted blood, Sinister removes the needle and instantly, the table slides over her skin, lingers for a moment, and then retreats healing the extremely minor wound better than any band-aid. "I have been watching your bloodline for some time, in fact," Sinister continues, setting the now full syringe down on a smaller table that grows up out of the ground next to him, complete with all manner of surgical tools. "While it wasn't the purest, it has always held potential... a potential fully realized with you and your siblings. I thought, perhaps, your brother was the key, but his hunger grew out of control. You sisters, while potent, are weak without each other. You... You are the culmination of every slight manipulation of your family's history. You are what I've been waiting for. Your parents may have provided the genetic material, but it was I who pushed them together." Sinister turns his smile back on Monet and plucks a scalpel from the host of other tools, "And it is I who will finally make you complete." Don't make a noise. Even when he hurts you, don't make a noise. Sometimes this will make him angry. Sometimes making noise will make him angry. Don't make a noise. The needle slips in and it's only blood. Her thoughts are clouds in a turbulent sky. This man says things that send her thinking and then--pain. Concepts break apart as quickly as they're formed. What little remains is drawn into some lateral path that is close to what she intended to consider. It's never close enough. The inhibitor does not punish simple thoughts. Monet is very good at building impressive things from simple thoughts. She thinks: don't make a noise. Keep your eyes open. She is not Monet. She is a camera. She is here to observe things for Monet to view later. Whatever Monet thinks, Sinister seems to at least care very little whether she speaks or not. He's perfectly content to go on talking to her, experimenting on her, collecting his samples. "This is the key moment, of course. Getting people together is easier than you might think. It's simple logic, really, and excellent observational skills. Now, however, when my hard work comes to fruition, when the best of the best is finally ready to advance to the next step in evolution, I must be there to see it through. One wrong move and the whole thing fails, at which point I must start over." The implications are truly terrible. He clearly sees her death as little more than a minor setback, just another obstacle to overcome, and he talks about it like it means next to nothing to him. As if it were nothing to manipulate people for generations until he got what he wanted. "So," he says, tracing her face with the cold steel of the scalpel, "I will try my hardest to make sure you survive. You are special, after all. A clone just wouldn't be the same... I've seen how that can turn out." He gives her the universal 'don't ask' look, before he chuckles and, with one smooth motion, cuts a hair from her head which he catches and begins to place within a test tube. "Almost done. It's not so bad, is it? Of course, these are just the preliminary tests. Unfortunately the next few will be... Well... Unpleasant. Not to worry, we'll try to get through them as fast as possible." The man's words wash over her, but she is in a bubble. He is almost speaking in another language. Monet understands the sounds and yet there is no meaning; she willingly casts meanings aside. If she throws everything away, nothing can be used against her. She will review what he said later. It is all there, in her head. Monet remembers everything. She remembers the last time this happened to her. It comes up easily in her mind, not as thoughts. Her mental defenses are feeble and beleaguered. The pictures are vivid: a dark place. A house. It's not on Earth. It's not even in this universe. Marius is there, with a horrifying little gnome of a man in a stupid hat. Not that Marius turned out to be anything promising, relatively speaking. Sinister glances towards Monet with a raised eyebrow even as he sets the test tube down on the organic table beside him. He had picked up on those last thoughts, no doubt her brother's own kidnapping of her. With a knowing smile, he turns back to his instruments and sets down the scalpel before he begins. "Now, due to the nature of this next test, it'll be the last for today." Sinister takes up a short, rounded piece of padded wood from the small table next to him and holds it in front of Monet's mouth, "Open. I'll need you to clamp down on this as hard as you can. Can't have you biting through your own tongue." It was a house. He made a house. All of that talk of conquering another dimension and then Earth and all Marius did was sulk in his house and-- Monet stops breathing. She had been staring at the man above her this entire time, but it was the unfocused look of an invalid. That request brought her back. Her spine arches as the inhibitor strikes her. She presses her head back into the table in some futile attempt to bury the pain. Though she does not do it quickly enough, Monet opens her mouth. She does not open it wide enough, either. Her movements, now that the convulsions have receded, are tentative. Sinister, is nothing if not patient. He idly observes Monet, as if even her reaction to his request was another test, and when finally her mouth opens, even barely, he places the padded bit of wood between her teeth, forcing them farther apart if necessary. "There we go. Now then... Just to give you a bit of advice -- don't strain against the table. It will instinctively hold you tighter if you do, and you may cause serious damage. Nothing that won't heal in time, of course, but... There you have it." Beyond that, he tells her nothing of what's coming next, and perhaps it's for the best that he doesn't. With a simple gesture, the table activates its second feature... With only a low hum for a warning, the restraints begin to emit a powerful and continuous stream of electricity, every volt coursing into Monet as Sinister leans back and observes her reaction, a small stopwatch in his hand as he goes about timing... something. Monet is still there, still paying attention. She is still animated, but does not strain against the table. She is listening. At least, partially. It doesn't look like she is biting down particularly hard. The electricity shoves a curve into her spine. Her muscles clench and her limbs twist. Without the restraints, she may have thrown herself off of the table. She struggles by instinct, trying to wrench herself free. It is familiar. One can grow used to something without becoming at peace with it. A smart person can use that familiarity to turn the fantastic into the mundane. It is another trick. It may as well be the only trick. In other situations, Monet's healing factor would account for and counter the vasovagal response, staving off the eventual unconsciousness. It is just Monet, in this case. She has her own powers. Another way to counter the vasovagal response, Monet knows, is to take certain actions. The muscles in her legs are already tight, squeezing blood out of them. Despite the racking spasms, the young woman forces her shoulders down, keeping her head lower than the rest of her body. More blood to her brain. The table holds tighter just as the man promised. It doesn't matter right now. Monet turns her head to stare once more at her captor, eyes opened as wide as she can manage. Now she is biting down. Sinister watches, glances at his stopwatch, and grins. As Monet turns to stare at him, he laughs a bit, only becoming more pleased at her refusal to go down. "I certainly did well with you, didn't I? Quite a specimen indeed." He examines her with an appraising eye, before he murmurs, almost to himself, "Perhaps one of the younger Summers... Now that would be interesting. A few more years, of course. Too soon, now. Far too soon... But in another few years..." He eventually snaps himself out of whatever scenario he was thinking over to glance at the stopwatch again, and waves his fingers lazily, the current instantly stopping. "Very good. Anymore, and I think I may actually kill you. Even without your powers you are a shining example of evolution, Monet. You should be proud." He snaps his fingers and a hissing sound erupts from all the corners of the room, "I'll remove the inhibitor once you're under. At least you'll get some decent sleep, eh? Big things tomorrow. Very big things." As he speaks, he leans forward and suddenly, just like that, the shadows are gone and his face is displayed for her in all it's pale-faced glory. "You will make a fine example for the others to follow when the time comes for this world to evolve. Sweet dreams." Suddenly his face dissolves into smoke as he disappears and that same, toxic-smelling gas begins to fill the room in his absence. Monet falls ungainly to the table with a thump. The wooden bit falls from her lips. Her jaw is too slack to hold onto it. She is focusing too hard on keeping her eyes open. Not Monet. A camera. The words are so much babble again. She is tired now. Honestly tired, not broken down by the pain. It has been years since she was without a healing factor. Her body's semi-intelligent response to wounding had been with her during the growing athleticism of her teens. The poison may have lingered in her system while her powers were shut off. Or, she is just human. She could close her eyes. This man was a professional. He had avoided being seen this far. Why would he slip up now? He was leaving, anyway. The sooner she rested, the sooner she could begin considering what he had said. Sinister leans forward. The trace of drowsiness in Monet's eyes disappears. She only needs a moment to commit his face to memory, but that doesn't seem like enough. She wants her mutation back. She wants to see him in microscopic precision, to hear his heart beat and smell his pores. She wants to remember every inch of him. He flows into assuredly cancerous smoke and floats away. Monet doesn't close her eyes. Even when the darkness comes creeping into her vision again, she doesn't close her eyes. She knows what he looks like. Category:Log